CHAPTER XIX — Encounter Renewed, Supreme Humiliation
1759 Words
Jiangcheng’s apogee of opulence—Celestial Summit Galleria. Its cathedral-like glass atrium filtered afternoon light into molten gold leaf, cascading onto polished Nero Marquina marble floors. Air hung heavy with glacial, exclusive perfumes, mingling with the aromas of supple leather, rare woods, and roasting arabica beans. The clientele—human equivalents of deep-sea rarities—glided with unhurried grace, murmuring in cultured tones, every detail an ode to inherent privilege.
Shen Qianqian, a preening peacock, stalked the reflective floors on limited-edition stiletto heels. Clad in a sequin-encrusted fuchsia minidress, an ostentatious crocodile tote slung over her shoulder, her violet-tipped hair swung with each exaggerated step. Beneath heavy makeup, her eyes radiated disdain and an unshakeable conviction of her own supreme worth. Two similarly attired acolytes trailed in her wake.
“Qianqian! Look! Dior’s new limited clutch! Only ten worldwide!” One acolyte pointed breathlessly at a vitrine displaying a sculptural Birkin homage.
“Pfft—” Qianqian’s lip curled, a dismissive flick of her gaze. “Barely passable. Papa promised Paris Fashion Week next month—selection at the atelier!” She tilted her chin, basking in the sycophantic gasps.
Her roving gaze snagged on a discreetly luxurious storefront—Cloudpeak Whispers. Jiangcheng’s (nay, the nation’s) sanctum sanctorum of pâtisserie fine. Its maître pâtissier, legend held, once graced a Parisian trois-étoiles. A palm-sized confection here commanded a commoner’s fortnight wages.
Qianqian froze mid-stride. Triumph curdled on her face, replaced by an expression of having swallowed a fly.
She beheld an impossibility.
Qin Hao.
That backwoods refuse! Clad in his faded, frayed-cuffed jacket. Indistinct denim. Dust-grimed canvas sneakers. The worn rucksack slung over his shoulder. An anachronism—a lump of refuse hurled into this gilded temple of Mammon!
He stood before Cloudpeak Whispers’ immaculate vitrine, head slightly inclined, seemingly contemplating the displayed confections with a focus jarringly at odds with the surrounding ostentation.
A toxic cocktail of revulsion, disgust, and profound absurdity surged through Qianqian, scalding her cheeks. This scrap-collecting troglodyte! Daring to defile Celestial Summit? Looming before Cloudpeak Whispers?! Did he comprehend a single petit four here cost months of his grubby toil?! His presence was sacrilege! An affront to her exalted status!
“Well, well! If it isn’t the Shen dynasty’s illustrious scrap-collecting son-in-law!” Qianqian’s voice, laced with venomous ice, shattered the boutique’s hushed elegance, snaring the attention of nearby patrons and staff.
She minced forward, hips swaying like a bantam c**k entering the fray, planting herself before Qin Hao, hands on hips. Contempt and mockery radiated from her, her voice pitched for maximum projection: “Tsk, tsk, tsk! Qin Hao! That ensemble… fresh from which gutter’s harvest? The stench lingers! Lost, are we? Scrap-collecting routes lead to Celestial Summit now? Spare us the indignity! Know your place, mud-grubber! This sanctum is beyond your grubby reach!”
Her crimson-tipped finger jabbed, nearly grazing his cheek. “Behold this pauper’s raiment! Its total worth wouldn’t buy a biscuit here! Oh! I forget! Your blind bride now basks in Tianhai’s favor! Their darling! Did she toss you scraps? Or are you groveling, hoping to impress her with bargain-bin crumbs?”
Vile words, a torrent of acid and envy. Her aim: to strip this refuse of all dignity before the glittering crowd; to sear into the blind wretch’s consciousness that even Tianhai’s caprice couldn’t elevate her husband beyond the gutter.
Patrons turned, gazes sharp with surprise, disdain, and voyeuristic amusement. Boutique staff frowned, professional courtesy masking a palpable urge to eject.
Qin Hao lifted his gaze. His eyes, fathomless tarns, swept Qianqian’s contorted face without a ripple. The shrill sparrow was less than a zephyr against stone. He offered no rebuttal, merely shifted slightly, as if to resume his contemplation of the pastries.
This absolute dismissal—worse than any insult—ignited Qianqian’s humiliation into incandescent rage.
“Halt!” She lunged sideways, blocking him anew, voice shriller with fury. “Refuse! Are you deaf?! This is no place for you! Vanish! Cease polluting the air! You offend my sight!”
She thrust a finger towards his face, spittle flying. “And tell that blind burden you wed! Tianhai’s fleeting whim grants no grandeur! A barnyard fowl remains! Sightless! Worthless! Trash wed to refuse! Perfection! Hahaha!”
Her cackle shredded the boutique’s quietude.
Simultaneously—
Within Cloudpeak Whispers—
Zhou Ming, the manager—impeccable in bespoke charcoal wool, a burnished gold “Manager” badge pinned to his lapel—emerged from the inner sanctum, brow furrowed at the escalating discord.
His gaze fell upon the shabby figure being harangued.
Zhou Ming’s pupils dilated—shockwave.
His professional mask shattered, replaced by an indescribable amalgam of profound shock, disbelief, and… bone-deep reverence!
Reflexively, spine snapped ramrod straight. A movement swift as lightning, stirring the air.
Before Qianqian’s sneer faded—
Before the stunned onlookers could blink—
Zhou Ming—paragon of Celestial Summit’s exacting standards—
Like a soldier receiving a sovereign’s command—
Strode forward—one decisive pace!
Executed a deep, ninety-degree obeisance—
Profound! Precise! Reverent beyond precedent!
“Master Qin!!!”
The address—saturated with awe, vibrating with fervor—detonated in the silent entrance! Echoing in every ear!
*Silence.*
Absolute. Vacuum-sealed.
Qianqian’s sneer petrified—a rictus in wet cement. Mouth agape, eyes bulging, she stared, mind rejecting the scene. Hallucination?
Patrons froze mid-sneer—thunderstruck. Jaws slack, eyes wide with utter stupefaction. Zhou Ming? Esteemed by Jiangcheng’s elite! Bowing… to this… gutter refuse?! Addressing him as Master Qin?!
Staff stood petrified—statues. Professional smiles obliterated, replaced by dumbfounded horror. Never had they witnessed such… deference!
Silence reigned. Only the HVAC’s drone persisted.
Zhou Ming held the obeisance, forehead near his knees, trembling slightly with awe. He dared not lift his head. One thought screamed: Him! It is him! The photograph! The clearance! The sigil of absolute, f*******n eminence!
Qin Hao’s gaze remained placid. Unmoved by the stupefying tableau. His eyes barely grazed the bowing manager, a hand lifting casually, as if brushing dust from his shoulder.
“Arise.” His voice, low and even, devoid of inflection.
“At once, Master Qin!” Zhou Ming snapped upright, posture immaculate, yet a sheen of sweat glistened at his temples. Hands clasped formally, reverence etched into his stance, eyes fixed respectfully below Qin Hao’s gaze.
“Master Qin honors this humble establishment! Your slightest wish is our command!” Zhou Ming’s voice held a barely perceptible tremor, humility profound.
Qin Hao’s gaze returned to the vitrine. He indicated a confection of ethereal elegance—a square of sculpted white chocolate, resembling carved jade, adorned with fresh raspberries and edible gold leaf. Beside it, a sterling silver plaque bore the cursive script: “Frostfire Dawn.”
“This.” Flat. Uninflected.
Zhou Ming’s heart lurched. The pièce de résistance! Limited to three daily! Nordic and Japanese air-freighted ingredients, crafted by the maître’s own hand! A price tag inducing vertigo!
“Instantly, Master Qin!” Without hesitation, Zhou Ming pivoted, barking at the paralyzed staff: “Swiftly! Package ‘Frostfire Dawn’ for Master Qin! The finest ice-silk camphorwood box! Gold-tissue lining! Jade-silk ribbon! Expedite!”
His command brooked no dissent. The staffer jolted into action, handling the delicate creation with trembling, reverent care.
Qianqian stood petrified—a lightning-struck stump. Color drained from her face, leaving spectral pallor. She witnessed Zhou Ming’s vassal-like deference, the staffer’s trembling reverence for the confection she’d scorned, Qin Hao’s unnerving calm… A glacial dread seized her, hairs standing on end, teeth chattering involuntarily.
Impossible! This scrap-collector?! How?! Why did Cloudpeak’s manager prostrate himself?! That cake… its cost… unimaginable!
Humiliation and nameless terror coiled around her heart like vipers. Her earlier vitriol echoed now—stinging slaps upon her own face.
Qin Hao added, almost as an afterthought: “And one ‘Whispering Heart’.”
“Whispering Heart”—another signature creation, starring Périgord truffles and Madagascan vanilla.
“Instantly, Master Qin!” Zhou Ming complied without pause. The staffer redoubled efforts, movements infused with heightened reverence.
Two exquisitely packaged confections—edible art—were presented. Zhou Ming offered them personally, posture still bowed, humility incarnate.
Qin Hao accepted them casually, as one might take street-vendor buns. The contrast—worn rucksack against gilded boxes—was jarring.
He turned. His gaze swept Qianqian, frozen in her rictus of shock.
That gaze…
Held no mockery.
No disdain.
No emotion whatsoever.
Only…
The absolute indifference of a deity observing cosmic dust.
Qianqian flinched as if pierced by an ice lance. A primal fear engulfed her. She stumbled back, stiletto twisting, saved from ignominy only by her acolyte’s grasp.
Qin Hao’s gaze moved on, as if brushing aside a mote. He strode towards the exit, the precious cakes swinging casually in hand.
His passage…
Parted the sea.
Patrons and staff alike held their breath, instinctively yielding space, gazes filled with shock, confusion, and burgeoning awe.
Manager Zhou followed half a step behind, posture perpetually deferential, the epitome of loyal retainer.
Only when Qin Hao vanished through the Galleria’s vast revolving doors did the frozen tableau thaw.
Qianqian’s legs buckled. She collapsed onto the cold marble, her designer bag discarded. Face ghostly, lips trembling, eyes vacant with terror and disbelief, she shook uncontrollably.
Her acolytes stood paralyzed, faces ashen.
Patrons, recovering, cast glances laden with scorn, ridicule, and schadenfreude. A spectacle of supreme folly.
“Heavens… who was that?”
“Unknown… but Manager Zhou…”
“Those cakes… ‘Frostfire Dawn’ and ‘Whispering Heart’… a five-figure sum…”
“Tsk, tsk. That girl… whose family breeds such blindness? Daring to insult him?”
“Karmic justice! Met the immovable object!”
The hushed barbs pierced Qianqian’s ears. Shame and terror warred within her.
Zhou Ming, having escorted Qin Hao, returned. Professional composure restored, his gaze swept Qianqian—a cold, dismissive warning.
“Madam,” his voice held steely authority, “if you lack commercial intent, refrain from obstructing patrons. Security!”
Two imposing guards materialized, flanking Qianqian, their stance an unambiguous directive: Depart.
Publicly flayed, Qianqian nearly swooned. Scrambling up with her acolyte’s aid, snatching her bag, she fled—a whipped cur—beneath a hail of derisive stares.
Only outside, on the bustling street, did she dare pause, gasping. The afternoon sun stung her eyes. She glanced back at the gilded Galleria, her gaze now etched with venomous hatred… and a marrow-deep dread.
Qin Hao!
That refuse!
Who… is he?!
- Writer
